Friends, Not Heroes
by koneko-desu
Summary: Post - His Last Vow - Sherlock's time spent in Serbia is revealed to John. Along with the fact that Sherlock was suppose to go on a suicide mission. How will John react to finding out just how much Sherlock is willing to sacrifice for him?


AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
>This is suppose to take place directly following what happened at the end of His Last Vow.<p>

I just got incredibly angry at a) John and b) Mary after watching HLV, so I decided to vent in the form of a fanfic. I needed John to know how far Sherlock has and is willing to go for him. I also needed to write down some things about Mary's actions in HLV.

Please understand that all of the stuff about Mary written here is my opinion, my take on what happened, and I know some people will disagree. I really liked Mary during The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three, and I had hoped to continue liking her, but after HLV I just can't. If you still really like Mary, even after HLV, then I really encourage you not to read this.

I kept their relationship on a friendship level for this. As much as I would have loved to turn it into something more, John is still married to Mary, and I don't want to write him cheating on her.

Oh, and lastly, this is my first Sherlock fanfic, so I'm sure characterization is crap. Please excuse. I'm not as witty as Sherlock and I can't come up with come backs as well as John OTL

Tumblr: bombaykitty2010

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><p><strong>Friends, Not Heroes<strong>

The ride back into the city was nothing short of chaos. Mycroft and his assistant were playing tag team on the phone, frantically trying to gather information. Sherlock sat in silence, observing and listening. His mind raced with the bits of conversation he could hear, trying to piece things together.

Moriarty's back? He's still alive? How can that be possible? The detective replayed the scene from that day on the roof of Bart's over and over in his mind, trying to find any tell tale sign as to how his nemesis had managed to escape death. Was he immortal? Sherlock shook his head. Impossible. That was an impossibility. So then, if he eliminated the impossible, anything that's left, however improbably, should be the truth. But he found his mind coming up blank. Aside from the fact that the greatest criminal mastermind had somehow returned, Sherlock felt another prickling fear in the back of his mind. The whole reason for Sherlock's faked suicide and his two years absence from London had been due to Moriarty's threat against those whom Sherlock considered, friends. If he's back, and if he knows Sherlock is still alive, would he attempt to finish what he had left unfinished?

Sherlock rested his head against the cool window, letting the coldness help him focus. He needed to find a way to protect John and the others, while at the same time find out for certain if Moriarty is indeed back. If that's the case, he needed to find out what his plans are and head him off. Sherlock ran through a list of people he knew, people that might be targeted.

John. Lestrade. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Mary. Not particularly long, but longer than it had been before.

Mycroft's frustrated sigh made Sherlock look up, catching a glimpse of his brother's face in the rear view mirror. Frustration. Confusion. Exasperation. And...yes, Sherlock saw a hint of fear.

"Sherlock Holmes will be held under house arrest at 221B Baker Street until all necessary information regarding the recent development can be compiled."

Mycroft's voice was tense, detached. As if he was reading the weather report. He avoided looking at Sherlock and kept his eyes on the screen of his phone.

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"I bet your bosses are thrilled that the man you confirmed as dead has risen once more, Mycroft."

The man scowled and shot a disproving glare over his shoulder. Sherlock made sure to keep his posture relaxed, calm, even though he felt anything but.

"He was dead. We checked. We matched DNA, dental records, fingerprints, everything. That was his body in the morgue, and it was his body that was buried."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Well then we must be dealing with a zombie, brother mine."

The detective smirked a bit as he saw Mycroft's eye twitch at the sarcastic title.

"Don't be ludicrous. This is serious. We need to determine this new threat immediately before panic sets sweeps through the masses. They are so prone to panic."

"One can hardly blame them considering how poorly they understand...everything. Panic seems like a rational reaction for those without logic."

"Yes, but once panicked they become impossible to control. You will be taken to Baker Street, I will go directly to meet with the prime minister. Once we have confirmed the information we have you will be briefed."

Sherlock examined his fingernails, pursing his lips.

"So you've decided I'll accept the case already."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"Of course you'll accept the case, you hardly have a choice in the matter. Besides, don't pretend as if you're interest is not piqued. We both know how you ache for a challenge."

Sherlock merely shrugged and kept silent.

Two agents were waiting when they arrived at Baker Street. Two stood at the front entrance, and another two at the top of the stairs right outside the door to the sitting room. They didn't speak, but Sherlock saw the firearms they had, hidden under their coats. No doubt they had been given orders to shoot if he attempted any sort of escape.

Mycroft walked him up to the front entrance when the honking of a car horn made them pause. The two agents tensed, hands instinctively reaching towards their weapons. Mycroft subtley signed for them to stand down as a car pulled up to the curb. John hopped out along with Mary, their eyes scanning over the agents with apprehension.

"What the bloody hell is going on? How can he be back?"

John was clearly not taking the news very well.

Mycroft was tight lipped, carefully picking the words he used.

"We are in the process of gathering all information regarding this situation. Until then, I suggest you go back home and remain there. I will have agents sent to see to your protection."

"Go home? Are you bloody insane? You want me to just go home and sit around doing nothing while that lunatic is running around? No. No, that's not going to happen. Sherlock?"

Sherlock couldn't help the small smile. John always turned to him when he was too flustered, angry, confused, seeking Sherlock's calmness as a sign that he had a plan, had an answer.

"John, it's OK. But much as I hate to say it, Mycroft is right. You and Mary should go home. Incompetent as his underlings are, I believe they should at least be able to keep you safe until we know more."

Mary stepped forward and wrapped her hands around John's arm. She attempted to guide her restless husband back to their car, but he stood firm.

"I'm staying here, Sherlock. I'm not leaving. No way am I letting you stay here by yourself when that madman is on the loose again, and we know he's going to come after you like before. Whatever he's got planned, Sherlock, you're going to be on his hit list for sure."

Mycroft glanced around at the surrounding buildings before he tapped his umbrella on the cement, silencing everyone.

"This isn't the place for this discussion. Inside, all of you."

One of the agents held the door open as Mycroft strode in without even checking to see if the others followed him. Sherlock followed after a pause. He felt his whole body tingling, trying to sense if there were any eyes on him from the street corners, the alleys, the windows. Nothing. John and Mary followed together, and the agent let the door shut with a soft click. The four made their way upstairs, trying to look confident but each one cautious and preparing themselves for whatever they might find up in the flat. Would Moriarty be there? Maybe a body? A note? Anything?

They stopped in the doorway, Mycroft and Sherlock scanning the room for anything out of place. A few pathetic Christmas ornaments hung from the mantle, an attempt by Mrs. Hudson to brighten the place up prior to the holidays. Other than that everything looked like the usual organized chaos that Sherlock liked to keep it in.

Sherlock walked in first and plopped himself down on the sofa. He shoved a cushion under his head and closed his eyes.

Mycroft turned to John and Mary, looking contemplative.

"If you insist on accompanying my brother for the time being, then so be it. I imagine Sherlock will be summoned for an information briefing within two hours, so you can stay here until then. After that I must insist that you return to your own house. The agents will escort you back at that time."

Mycroft turned on his heels before any further discussion could be attempted and promptly walked back to his car. He was not looking forward to the flood of questions that will undoubtedly be thrown at him once he's back at his office. What a miserable day this was turning out to be.

Sherlock didn't budge when his brother left. He kept his eyes closed as his brain tried to piece together the information he had, storing away the necessary things, deleting the unnecessary, and organizing them in his mind palace for easy access. If Mycroft was using his agents then it would make things easier, but he couldn't trust these men to keep John and the others safe. Moriarty would have little trouble breaching that, and he wouldn't be surprised if there are members of Mycroft's secret service that are under the influence of Moriarty at this point.

John looked around, unsure what to do. He had an endless stream of questions he wanted to ask, but knew that Sherlock probably couldn't answer them at the moment. He needed to give the man some time to gather his thoughts.

Just as he was about to suggest he go make them some tea a sharp knock at the turn caught their attention.

"Yoohoo. I thought I heard footsteps. Oh, Sherlock! I thought I wouldn't see you again! What is this all about? What's going on? Who are the two men outside the door?"

Mrs. Hudson's voice was full of confusion and anxiety. Clearly she had seen the news and it unsettled her greatly. She barely paused for breath between her questions even as John placed a calming arm around her shoulders.

"It's all right Mrs. Hudson, it's going to be OK. Why don't you an Mary go make us some tea? A nice cup will calm you down."

John caught Mary's eye and motioned for her to take Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Mary nodded silently and gently guided the elderly woman by the arm down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson went along without resistance, but her questions didn't stop and they could hear her voice, still rambling without pause, fading as the two ladies made their way downstairs.

Only after John was sure that Mary and Mrs. Hudson were out of earshot did he close the door and turn to Sherlock.

"So, what's the plan?"

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes finally opening to look at the ceiling.

"Haven't the faintest. Need more data. Can't plan anything without all necessary information."

John flopped himself back in his armchair, noting that Sherlock had kept it in the sitting room this time even after he had gone back to Mary.

"So we're just going to wait then? For your brother? I thought you said you had completely dismantled Moriarty's network, how is this even possible?"

Sherlock shrugged again and didn't reply. He was asking himself the same thing. Two years he had spent tracking down everyone related to Moriarty, getting rid of anyone that was a threat. He thought he had researched thoroughly, did he let someone slip through his fingers? Or was this the work of someone new? Someone Moriarty had newly recruited?

"And why did he choose to come back? Is he still obsessed with destroying you? Or is this a new game he's playing?"

John's questions didn't help and Sherlock tried to tune him out. He replayed every detail of the two years he was away, recalling every conversation he had eavesdropped on, remembering every message. Did any of Moriarty's underlings give any sign that the man was still alive? Was there any clue? Any hint? If so, where had he been hiding? What has he been doing? Why had he sat back and allowed Sherlock to take out his allies? What was he up to?

"For chrissakes Sherlock, say something!"

John's angry voice cut into Sherlock's thoughts and he let out an annoyed sigh, sitting up on the sofa.

"I don't know, John! I'm trying to think! I thought I had taken care of everyone related to Moriarty, we all thought so. There was nowhere he could have hidden for all these years without any detection."

"Well clearly that's not the case. How big was his network, anyway? Just England? Or Europe? Worldwide?"

Sherlock tensed. He had avoided talking to John about anything related to his time away since he had come back. Those years hadn't exactly been the most pleasant, and he had interest in John ever finding out about them. John, for his part, had allowed Sherlock to keep his secrets. He knew the detective wasn't exactly the most forthcoming person anyway, and he figured much of what Sherlock was involved in was probably confidential. But now he needed to know. How much power did Moriarty have, did he have influence in the government? In other governments? In the military? In international conflicts?

"It's...big."

Sherlock finally managed.

John blinked. Was that all Sherlock was going to tell him?

"Big. It's just, big. Really? That's about as useful as telling me water is wet."

Sherlock jumped up and started pacing.

"Oh for heavens sake, John. How does any of that matter now anyway? His old network is out of commission. We saw to that. Unless...could it have been a misstep when I infiltrated the Serbia branch? That was the only part that didn't go smoothly. Instead of infiltrate and destroy they had managed to catch me. Could something have leaked while I was being held captive? Did someone escape? Mycroft told me that everything was taken care of, but we all know how incompetent his bungling agents are. Plus, Mycroft pulled me out of Serbia immediately after my release, it was too quickly for me to double check at the time. Is it possible? But no, I'm sure we tied up all the loose ends.

But it can't be a coincidence that Moriarty reappears just as I was about to leave for eastern Europe. If this is indeed him, then he timed it just as the plane too off. Did he know if he didn't play his hand now he wouldn't have a chance in the future? If that's the case, then the purpose of his return is still me. Is he seeking revenge? But he wouldn't have had to. If he had simply let me go then I'd be out of the picture after six months tops.

So perhaps it's not revenge.

Manipulation then? He wants me to do something. What is it? What can only I do here in England?

Or, is he trying to keep me from going to east Europe? Does he have something up his sleeve over there and he's afraid I'll interfere? Something that I can interfere in within six months.

Or perhaps this isn't him. Maybe it's someone else using footage of Moriarty. We haven't confirmed that the footage was live. So if it's someone else, they must have known Moriarty. An accomplice? Or merely using him? But why use Moriarty then? What's the purpose? Shock factor? Sending a message? What is it? What is it? What am I missing?"

John kept his eyes glued to Sherlock's pacing form. He strained to catch every word of Sherlock's ramblings, the man's thoughts came tumbling through so fast that often his sentences started jumping around. When John finally managed to process what Sherlock had said he held up a hand and raised his voice to be heard over Sherlock.

"Whoa! Wait a minute! What do you mean you were held captive? And what's this about six months? Sherlock, stop talking and answer me!"

John's interjection was like a stop button. Sherlock froze and his wide eyes turned to John. The sudden silence was deafening as the two stared at each other. John's eyes were determined. Sherlock loved to throw bits and pieces of information at him and then leave without fully explaining anything. It kept John on his toes and kept him guessing. Usually he didn't mind, but this time he wasn't letting the taller man get away with it. If what he had heard was correct then Sherlock had some explaining to do.

Sherlock bit his tongue as he realized his ramblings had revealed more than he had meant to. With John being gone he had gotten used to speaking out loud as he tried to sort through his thoughts. Mycroft hadn't specifically instructed him not to reveal to John what had happened during the two years. Considering that everything which took place was in the past the need for secrecy wasn't so crucial, but Sherlock had glossed over most of it when John had asked, not wanting the man to know about some of the grittier details. Likewise, he didn't think Mycroft would care if John knew that the mission he was being sent on had been intended to be his last one. That wasn't important and John knowing wouldn't compromise anything, but Sherlock knew that John would care. Sherlock made the decision to shoot Magnussen knowing the consequences would be severe. He made that decision, he will live with the consequences, or die as the case may be. Still, he wanted John to have the illusion that he was still alive somewhere, and perhaps he'll come back someday. Sherlock had learned early in life that hope proved a powerful tool when manipulating humans and he had wanted John to keep that hope alive.

Faced with John's demanding stare, Sherlock furrowed his brow feigning confusion.

"What? Oh do keep up John, none of that matters now. We have to figure out who's behind this and why. Then we can work out what needs to be done."

"Sherlock, shut up. You're not weaselling your way out of this one. Answer my damn questions right now."

"Well I can't very well shut up and answer, now can I? Oh, do make up your mind. I wonder where's Mrs. Hudson with our tea. She's taking an awfully long time."

John didn't let the sudden change in topic faze him. He walked up to Sherlock and grabbed the man's arm with his hand. His grip was tight, almost threatening.

"No. Sherlock, we're not playing this game. You are going to give me answers, right now. What did you mean when you said you were held captive? And what did you mean by six months and you would have been out of the picture? Answer. Now. Immediately."

Sherlock winced at John's grip. The man really was strong when he wanted to be. Instinctively, Sherlock tensed and he tried to step back, pulling on his arm to get John to let go. He didn't like being restrained, didn't like it at all. John had no intention of letting go and he stood firm.

The silence stretched. Sherlock didn't bother coming up with a story or excuse. He simply stared back at John.

"It...why does it even matter anymore? Whatever happened it was in the past. And clearly I'm not going on the mission anymore. Now can we please stop wasting time? You have the worst timing for these things John Watson."

John took a deep breath, resisting the urge to head butt the man again. Sometimes it was just so tempting.

"I don't care that it's in the past. I demand to know. Now tell me. Or I swear I will go into the kitchen right now and set fire to all your experiments."

Sherlock looked absolutely scandalized at the mere thought of his precious equipment being set ablaze. He glanced at the kitchen then back at John, calculating if John was actually being serious. Not that he really had much use for it anymore, but he'd prefer not to witness John committing arson in their flat.

With a resigning sigh Sherlock let himself fall back down to his sofa. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, clasping his hands together in front of him. Flashes of unpleasant memories slowly came back to him as he opened the door to the room in his mind palace which stored all the videos of his time in Serbia.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock, letting go of his arm when the man sat down. He pulled up the coffee table next to the sofa and sat on the edge, facing Sherlock. He kept his hands resting on his thighs, keeping quiet and letting Sherlock take his time to gather his thoughts.

"So...Moriarty. You can imagine that a man like Moriarty had connections to fairly...unpleasant organizations. Gangs, mafias, all kinds of crime rings, those are obvious, but also weapons dealers and terrorist organizations from various countries. I had to find out which ones were aligned with Moriarty. We didn't know which ones had sent in the assassins to target you and the others, so we had to get rid of all of them. With Mycroft's help I compiled a list of targets we needed to hit.

The secret service took on the ones that they could, but a few I needed to get rid of myself, particularly the organizations that needed infiltration. The secret service have agents trained for undercover work, but there are always certain lines they can't cross, and those leave them vulnerable to be discovered. I, on the other hand, am not an official employee and am unhindered by all that.

The organization in Serbia happened to be the last hit on our list that I needed to infiltrate. It was suppose to be fairly simple. Go in, dig out the main players in the organization, confirm their involvement with Moriarty, take them out, finish. But somehow they had been expecting it. I managed to infiltrate successfully, but when I went for the final hit they caught me.

In the end Mycroft had to go in himself with his agents to pull me out. We managed to stomp out the organization too, but it took far longer than expected, and Mycroft was quite disgruntled with having to do field work."

Sherlock smirked a bit at the memory of it. He did so love seeing Mycroft out of his element. The man was usually so calm, he just begged to be rattled.

John listened without moving. He noticed that Sherlock avoided eye contact with him the whole time, keeping his eyes on his clasped hands.

"How long?"

Sherlock looked up and gave him a puzzled look.

"How long did they have you captive?"

John clarified.

Sherlock dropped his gaze again and mumbled something.

"Come again?"

Sherlock sighed raising his voice slightly.

"A month, a month and a half, kind of a blur."

The lanky man shrugged as he muttered, trying to show that it wasn't such a big deal. He really didn't see the point to all of this. Like he had said, it was all in the past.

John sucked in a lungful of air as he rubbed his eyes. A month to six weeks, at the hands of a terrorist organization, who knew Sherlock was there to get rid of them. They must have given him quite a welcome.

"What exactly did they do when they found out you were sent in to target them?"

Sherlock busied himself with the cuff of his shirt, suddenly finding it fascinating. He rubbed at an imaginary stain, before moving on to fiddle with the buttons on the cuffs.

"Oh, you know, the usual terrorist stuff. Dull really. They really ought to come up with some new techniques, it gets so predictable so quickly."

John put a hand over Sherlock's, forcing the man to stop fidgeting. He could feel the slightest tremor of those long fingers under his hand and he frowned with concern. Sherlock had only ever shown fear on one other occasion, and at that time he had cursed his body for giving him away. John could feel the the tension thrumming through Sherlock with that single touch and he felt something inside him wrench at seeing the usually confident man so on edge.

"Tell me."

John urged quietly. He needed to hear Sherlock tell him everything. He won't let Sherlock hide behind vague gloss overs, not this time. Two years, exactly what had he gone through? John kicked himself for not having forced Sherlock to tell him sooner. He should have realized, should have seen the signs. If this had been anyone else faking their own suicide and confronting international terrorists, they would need to be in therapy probably for the rest of their life, but this was Sherlock and John couldn't imagine the man anywhere near a therapist. So he had to deal, he had to deal with all of it on his own. Any trauma, injury, pain, there was really no one for Sherlock to share them with.

John felt a flood of guilt hit him all of a sudden, and he physically had to clench his free hand into a fist to stop from slapping himself. John should have been there for him as his friend, but he had been so focused on his own life to notice. First it had been anger at Sherlock for deceiving him, then whirlwinding back into his life throwing it into chaos once more, then it was on Mary and their wedding. After that it had been the honeymoon and now more and more there was the coming baby to think about. Sherlock had gotten pushed to the back of his mind in all of this.

Thinking back, Sherlock had probably not relayed what he actually experienced during those two years to anyone. Mycroft would know what happened, but like Sherlock, Mycroft cared little for the feelings of others, but pain was pain, and fear was fear. Much as this pair of brothers liked to deny that they experienced these feelings, they did, and John knew they did.

Sherlock kept quiet for a long moment. If he allowed himself to, it was too easy to fall back. That tiny dark cell, the coldness of the hard cement floor, the echo of the chains, his own laboured breathing, the smell of mould and alcohol, the sound of his tormentor pacing, the coppery smell of blood, the warmth of the liquid running down his skin, the stabbing pain as his skin ripped open, his body struggling against its bindings, seeking relief, the darkness slowly lulling him into its welcoming arms of nothingness, the crack of the pipe as it made contact with his face, the exploding pain of broken bones, the screams...his screams tearing from his raw throat even though he tried so hard to keep silent. Sherlock jerked back on the sofa, ripping his hands away from John's as he curled up, bringing his legs up until he was almost in a ball. His breathing sped up and his eyes widened, staring directly at John, but not seeing him.

John was startled at the sudden change in Sherlock's demeanour. The shaking had worsened and Sherlock sounded like he was hyperventilating.

"Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock! Can you hear me?"

He kept his voice quiet, soothing. Slowly he waved a hand in front of Sherlock's face, trying to illicit some sign of recognition. Sherlock didn't even blink. Unsure what to do, John laid a hand on Sherlock's arm and gave him a soft shake.

This time, Sherlock reacted.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE ASKING ME ABOUT! I TOLD YOU I DON'T KNOW!"

With a shout that shook John to the core, the taller man flew off the sofa and ran to the corner between the window and the end of the sofa. Without pause he curled himself up there, wrapping his arms around his legs and buried his face in his arms.

John was stunned. He had never, ever seen Sherlock in such a state. It was like a bad dream as he watched his friend shake and tremble, frightened of whatever was playing in his head.

At a loss, John slowly walked to Sherlock and this time sat down on the floor next to his friend. He watched for a few minutes, hoping that Sherlock would calm down on his own, but the taller man didn't show any sign of improvement. Licking his lips nervously, tried to soften his voice until it was barely above a whisper. The last thing he wanted was to startle Sherlock more, he needed to pull his friend out from whatever nightmare his mind has entrapped him in.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? It's John. We're at Baker Street."

Sherlock didn't answer, but his trembling stopped. Encouraged, John continued.

"It's just you and me, Sherlock. Just like always. Come on, talk to me. You're safe here, no one's going to hurt you."

Slowly Sherlock lifted his head and one blue eye peeked out from behind a curtain of brown curls in John's direction.

"J..John?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Right here, Sherlock. Are you OK?"

John wanted to wrap his arm around the other's shoulder, or put his hand on the other's arm, some kind of physical connection to ground the man, but he was afraid any physical contact would send Sherlock back into a frenzy, so he refrained.

Sherlock seemed to come back as he heard John's voice. He looked around the flat, blurry eyes focusing more as he recognized where he was. Finally, blue orbs settled on John, still somewhat bewildered, but much calmer than before.

"John...what happened? How did I get here? Weren't we just talking?"

John almost laughed with relief as Sherlock came back.

"Oh god, you scared me. I..yes, yes we were talking. You, uh, you kind of...panicked, but it's OK now. Thank god."

Sherlock gave him a confused look as he tried to recall what exactly happened.

"I panicked from talking? That's completely illogical. I remember going over theories regarding Moriarty, then you asked me something...what was it...Moriarty, faked death, theories, networks...oh yes! You asked about how I dismantled Moriarty's network! And then.."

John interrupted hurriedly, not sure if it was a good idea for Sherlock to remember again.

"Yeah, that's about it. We were talking about Moriarty and you uh, kind of panicked talking about that day at Bart."

Sherlock's expression this time was of pure disbelief.

"John...if you're going to lie at least put some effort into it."

John flushed. Lying had never been one of his strengths.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall, eyes tracing imaginary patterns in the ceiling as his mind replayed what had just happened, trying to recall. He was on the sofa, they were talking, and then somehow he had ended up in the corner on the floor.

John sighed as he realized his friend wasn't going to give up until he had figured this out.

"You panicked recalling something that happened to you in..in Serbia."

Sherlock moved his gaze from the ceiling to John.

"Oh..right...Serbia. You wanted to know what happened."

John swallowed. He did, he won't deny that he did, but Sherlock's reaction earlier frightened him. He didn't want Sherlock to go through it again if even thinking about it made the man panic, and Sherlock's reaction frightened him about what he might find out. Could he handle it? Could he handle knowing his best friend had been put through all of that? But he had to, if Sherlock managed to survive through it, who was he to complain about simply hearing it? Taking a deep breath he levelled his eyes at Sherlock, trying his best to keep it as steady as he could.

"I..I'd like to hear it from you. If you can manage."

John added in the second part. He'll leave it up to Sherlock to decide.

Sherlock didn't look away. His voice flattened as if he was recounting a story instead of describing something that he had been put through.

"When they caught me I was taken to a cell. I stayed there until Mycroft managed to infiltrate and help me escape. Granted I tried once to escape on my own, but that didn't quite work out as I had hoped. Lack of sleep interfered with my ability to accurately calculate my enemies' capabilities it seems.

You've been in a war zone, John. I'm sure you're not unfamiliar with interrogation techniques. Beatings, sleep deprivation, sound bombardment, isolation, water boarding, stress positions, humiliation, they were a crude bunch, so nothing particularly out of the ordinary."

Sherlock paused and studied John's reaction. The older man had closed his eyes as Sherlock described the torture he had been subjected to. He was afraid that if he opened them the tears he felt welling in his eyes would fall, and then he would break down. Sherlock looked so nonchalant as he described his tortures, like it was no big deal, nothing he couldn't handle, and for some reason that had made it seem so much worse. John's mind helpfully supplied images of Sherlock being bound in a dirty cell, bloodied and helpless, subjected to hours of beatings, humiliation, things John had seen far too much back in Afghanistan and things he had hoped to never bear witness to again.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head as if putting the memories out of his mind.

"But like I said, it's all in the past. Hardly matters anymore."

John's eyes snapped open and before he could stop himself he was kneeling in front of Sherlock, arms stretched out in front of him, hands flat against the wall on either side of Sherlock's head, trapping the brunette. The emotions that raged beneath his eyes were a mixture of hurt, sadness, anger and most of all guilt.

"Hardly matters?! Hardly matters?! How can you say that? It is FAR from being in the past, Sherlock. You can't just expect yourself to waltz out of torture and be OK. That just doesn't happen! Jesus Sherlock, why didn't you SAY something?"

Sherlock looked slightly shocked at John's outburst and he shifted uncomfortably. John's position placed him right in Sherlock's personal space and he could feel his flatmate's anger, radiating from his body. The man was so close that Sherlock could feel his breath against his face.

"But I AM OK. Why wouldn't I be?"

John wanted to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him. He wanted to smack that face until some common sense sunk in. He wanted to yell and scream and throw things. Instead, he settled for lowering his voice and glaring.

"Because human beings don't walk out of torture chambers just being OK. There are consequences, Sherlock. And don't try to tell me you don't know. You knew about my PTSD after Afghanistan, and I wasn't even tortured. Don't try and tell me that you don't suffer from it too. You're human, Sherlock Holmes, as much as you try to think you're not, you ARE. So just stop pretending, just stop it.

You could have told me, I would have helped you. I would have helped you, like...like you helped me."

John's vision blurred as the tears he tried to held back threatened to fall once more. How many times had Sherlock woken him from his nightmares when they had been flatmates? How many times had Sherlock noticed his memories taking over and silently played the violin for him until his thoughts calmed down? Sherlock never pushed him to talk or share like his therapists did, but Sherlock had, in his own way, aided John in his recovery.

Yet when Sherlock needed someone, John had not been there. He hadn't even known.

Sherlock shrugged again. John found he was really hating that gesture.

"You were busy, wedding and all. Besides, I had my cases to keep me occupied. And there was always the drugs if things got really bad. Oh do stop giving me that look, John. I know about your disapproval regarding drugs, but really, I know my limit and I'm hardly addicted."

John stood up and sat down on edge of the couch, still keeping his eyes on Sherlock. The man rested his arms on his lanky legs, now staring at the floor.

"Besides, what could you have done? Sent me to see a therapist? Really, John, can you imagine me? With a therapist? I'd be committed within the first five minutes."

"But there must have been SOMEthing I could have done. Even if it was just...just being here more often. You got yourself tortured, to save ME, to save US, and here we are completely ignorant of it. You can't do that, Sherlock, you can't just go sacrificing yourself because it bloody HURTS to be sacrificed for."

Sherlock looked up with confusion.

"That makes no sense, John. That is absolutely illogical."

John couldn't help it. He grabbed a cushion from the sofa and threw it at Sherlock, his lip twitching as it smacked the man directly in the face earning him a disgruntled frown.

"Yeah, welcome to being human."

Sherlock was quiet as he studied the cushion which had fallen into his lap. The flat was quiet except for the sound of the occasional car passing by outside.

"It's...difficult. Being human."

"Because we're not math equations that always have a right answer? Yeah. There tends to be alot of...grey areas."

Sherlock only scoffed in reply.

"Before you go into another of your silence periods, I need to ask something else."

Sherlock looked up again at John.

"You said that if Moriarty had waited for six months you wouldn't be in the picture anymore. What did you mean by that?"

Sherlock blinked. He had forgotten he had let that bit slip during his rant earlier. It seems John hadn't. Silently, he cursed at himself for his habit of talking through his thoughts out loud. He'll have to work on that.

"Six months?"

John could feel Sherlock's guard going up again.

"Stop pretending, and no lying. Tell me the truth because I WILL find out anyway, Sherlock, so let's just save both of us some time and trouble. What did you mean?"

Sherlock ran through the information he had regarding the mission he was supposed to be on at the moment, picking out what needed to be kept confidential and what he could divulge. Was it really a good idea to let John know exactly what the expected outcome of that particular mission was supposed to be? How would he react? What would he do? What chain reaction will arise from any information he reveals to John? Sherlock ran through all the scenarios and cringed when he realized there seemed to be a distinct lack of a positive outcome. Maybe if he just dragged it out long enough Mycroft will call him in for the briefing and he can get away? Sherlock sneaked a glance at his watch and grimaced. Nope, doesn't seem like it. Not enough time has passed, even though to Sherlock it felt like an eternity.

"Stop stalling, Sherlock. Either you're going to tell me or I will storm Mycroft's office and ask him. And you know I will."

Sherlock sighed. Well, that certainly wouldn't go over well.

"I can't tell you much, it's still an ongoing operation. So what you do learn here you can't reveal to anyone, not Mary, not anyone."

John nodded. He was used to having to keep secrets where Sherlock's concerned.

"All I can tell you is that the mission was in eastern Europe, as you already know, and that if Mycroft had deduced correctly, it would have proven to be fatal after six months, max."

John kept his expression carefully schooled.

"But Mycroft always deduces correctly. You yourself said that."

Sherlock sneered.

"Yeah, unfortunately. The bastard. And he never misses the chance to rub it in either."

John sucked in a breath and stared down at his hands. They had unconsciously clenched into fists, pressing against his thighs. He needed to punch something, he needed to punch something really badly.

"OK...so let me get this story straight. For two years you took on terrorist organizations, and got yourself tortured, for me."

"Well, technically, it wasn't just for you."

Sherlock interjected, but John continued without stopping.

"And then, you come back, acting as if none of it had happened. Then, you go and kill someone to protect Mary, getting yourself sent on a suicide mission as punishment. A suicide mission that you accepted, without telling me, and had no intention of telling me. Is that what you're telling me?"

Sherlock paused and thought it over.

"Well...slightly romanticized, but I guess that summarizes it fairly accurately. But really, John, there's no need for all this sentimentality. The fact of the situation is that all of that is past and we have to face the prospect that Moriarty has returned. That's where our focus should be."

John had more or less tuned Sherlock out by this point. His best friend, this man who sneered at caring, who hated sentiment, this man who he had once accused of being a machine, had put his life on the line, for him, for Mary, to protect him. Sherlock can't rationalize that away. It was illogical, irrational. Although John hadn't read the files on the USB about Mary's past he had known enough just from Magnussen that it included killing. Sherlock had no logical reason to protect her to such an extent, especially after she had shot him.

Sherlock had tried to convince John that Mary hadn't aimed to kill with her shot, but John had heard from the doctors at the hospital that Sherlock had flat lined. His heart had stopped when he was on the operation table. He had died. How he managed to pull himself out of death John didn't have a clue, but it had been a miracle as the doctors had put it. A miracle.

Since then, John has replayed the scene of when he had broke the news to Mary that Sherlock had survived at the hospital countless times in his mind. Initially he had wondered how she could lie so directly to his face, knowing that she was the one who put Sherlock there in the first place. But slowly, he had began questioning her reaction. She didn't look relieved that Sherlock had survived, she didn't even seem to expect it. Instead, she had seemed nervous, worried. At first John had simply chalked it up to her being worried for Sherlock's condition, but more and more John wondered exactly what had caused her to be nervous. Had she really expected Sherlock to be alive? Or had she been nervous that he had survived?

And John had to wonder about when Sherlock dragged him to that alley and set up the meeting with Mary after he had escaped the hospital. Before Mary realized it was John sitting in the wheelchair, she had pulled her gun out. She had threatened who she thought was Sherlock, again, and was only convinced to give it up when Sherlock pointed out that his corpse found in the alley, with her face plastered to the front of the buildings, would clearly implicate her as the murderer.

John didn't want to think about any of that. He had decided to trust Mary, and he told her as much when they went to Sherlock's parents' house for Christmas. He didn't want to think that his wife, the soon-to-be mother of his child, was capable of murder, of his best friend no less. That had to be a part of her past, not her present, nor her future. It was in the past, and it had to remain there. So John had latched onto the excuse Sherlock had tossed, clinging to it, believing that Mary hadn't meant to kill Sherlock with her bullet. Silencing all his doubts by deafening his ears and blinding his eyes to them. No, he trusted Mary.

But Sherlock had no reason to. Sherlock had no reason to be so protective of Mary, except one. Magnussen had pointed out that John was Sherlock's pressure point, and in turn, Mary was John's. Was Sherlock protecting her for John's sake? Was all of this for him? John felt his tears once more, and this time he couldn't blink them away. Did his best friend get sentenced to die because he wanted to protect his wife for him?

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just, shut up. For one minute, shut up."

John couldn't keep his voice steady and he hated himself for it. He quickly swiped a sleeve over his eyes, attempting to get rid of the wetness overtaking his eyes. He can't cry, how pathetic that would be.

Sherlock went silent at John's demand. He could practically hear the gears in John's mind turning. John was more intelligent than a lot of people, nowhere near as brilliant as Sherlock of course, but give him the pieces to a puzzle and enough time and he could put it all together. Sherlock needed to redirect his attention away from all of this, because Sherlock didn't want him asking more questions. Questions he really didn't feel comfortable answering. He made a vow, and he planned to keep it, no matter the consequences to himself. That was all.

"You're an idiot."

Sherlock perked up at the accusation and couldn't help the sulky glare he levelled at John. An idiot? Where had that come from? How insulting.

"You're absolutely an idiot, William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

Sherlock frowned harder at the use of his full name. Blasted. He knew it had been a mistake revealing it to John, but he had thought it would be their last meeting. Now he would surely never hear the end of it.

"If you ever pull anymore stunts like this, if you ever try to sacrifice yourself again, I swear to whatever God is out there that I will set fire to all your experiments along with your violin. Then I'm going to bring Molly in and let her slap you all she wants, this time WITH a ring on. And if I'm really angry, I might even lock you in a room with Anderson for a few hours."

Sherlock looked absolutely miffed at the mere image of it.

"You can't keep doing this, Sherlock. You can't just take it all on yourself like that. That's not fair, and it hurts. It hurts that you didn't tell me about all of this, I'm your friend, you should have told me."

Sherlock sniffed and looked away.

"Friends protect people. That's what you said. You made me your best friend. I'm just doing what you said friends do."

John shook his head in exasperation. Sometimes Sherlock can seem so naive, especially when other humans were involved.

"Yes, friends protect people. So you have to let me, let us, protect you too. You can't be the only one, Sherlock. Friendship isn't such a one sided relationship, it's two ways."

Sherlock mulled the new information over in his head. It all seemed so complicated. No wonder Mycroft so detested these human interactions, they made everything muddled with their lack of logic.

Before he had a chance to reply, the buzzing of his phone interrupted. Pulling it out from his pocket the curly haired detective absently brought it up to his ear.

"Mycroft. Yes. OK."

With those curt words, Sherlock hung up and stood up at the same time, tossing his phone up in the air before catching it and slipping it back into his trouser's pocket. He turned to John and his eyes glittered, the way they always seemed to when faced with a challenge.

"I'm being summoned it seems. Time to get going."

John nodded and stood up too. He stared at Sherlock without speaking, his mind still going over everything he's learned about his frien over the past hour or so. The man always kept him guessing, never was he bored when Sherlock's around. What an enigmatic creation.

Sherlock graced him with an upraised eyebrow, unsure what the intense stare was for.

"John?"

The shorter man mustered up an encouraging smile, took a deep breath and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around the taller man's shoulders and pulling him in for a clumsy hug.

Sherlock tensed at the unusual contact, not sure how to react. He stayed rigidly still, blinking rapidly with confusion.

After a minute, John awkwardly patted Sherlock's back and released him. He forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes even though he wanted to look anywhere else. He knew he needed Sherlock to pay attention and remember his next words.

"Friends protect each other, Sherlock. Heroes sacrifice themselves for others. You said before you're not a hero, so stop playing hero on your own, and be my friend."

Sherlock was still unsure about the hug, but he shook himself out of his reverie as a message buzzed his phone, letting him know that his ride was downstairs.

"Well then, friend, it seems the game is on!"

The two men exchanged a grin and strode out the door, ready to face whatever new challenges awaited them.


End file.
